Chapter 22: Back in the saddle again
Sunday afternoon, 2 August
Leeds, England
Deputy Headmistress McGonagall gathered her bearings after sticking the ninth apparition landing of her day. The abandoned warehouse where she made that landing was just as quiet and dusty as she'd remembered it. This was a pleasant surprise…given her day (and the day previous), McGonagall had half-expected to land within a cesspool.
The elderly witch's luck held when she was able to hail a Muggle taxi on a nearby commercial street and determine that the fare to reach her destination was within her travel budget.
Partial reliance on mundane travel was something that McGonagall had insisted upon when she was promoted to Deputy and tasked with making first contact with prospective Muggleborns and their families. When he had been Deputy Headmaster, Dumbledore had the benefit of a bonded phoenix to help him hand deliver Hogwarts invitations. Minerva didn't have that option and was a lot more cautious when it came to blindly arriving unannounced on people's doorsteps.
On a normal year, there was enough time to both plan out her trips and weed out any magical addresses from her visit list. But Dumbledore had bolloxed things up and left her no time for research. McGonagall was still smarting from the dressing down she'd received earlier that day, when she'd been repelled by the wards of a conservative pureblood family whose surname she had failed to recognize.
The parents took being mistaken for Muggles rather poorly.
The taxi dropped Minerva off in front of a tower block of council flats. A discreetly cast spell confirmed the absence of magical traps or wards. She found the correct surname on the secured entry's list of tenants, pressed the button, and steeled herself to deliver an increasingly sour sales pitch.
oo00OO00oo
Sunday morning, 2 August
Hidden Island
The Lady of the Castle had written "Family Leisure Time" into her planner for their first Sunday morning in North America. That her boyfriend's hour-long trip to France and back could count as "leisure time" was one of the wonders of magic…at least for the Lady's parents.
Harry recounted his daily French lesson during a decadent brunch. While hand-delivering a letter from her big sister, Gabrielle had pre-emptively shared the news within it…Bill and Fleur were now planning an October wedding and wanted Harry and Hermione to stand with them during the ceremony. This led to a discussion about marriages and wedding ceremonies within the Wizarding World.
Seeking a rise out of his daughter, Roger asked if Hermione's grandmother would be allowed to attend her wedding. Hermione smiled as she reached for Harry's hand.
"Witches and wizards are still British citizens, daddy," she stated. "You'll be able to walk me down the aisle in a traditional wedding ceremony that's recognized by the Muggle government."
"My parents went both ways," Harry chimed in. "Muggle civil service and a magical handfasting."
Emily half-jokingly asked whether the young couple had any news of their own to share. Roger joined in by reminding Hermione that Nana Barb was getting on in years.
Hermione laughed, squeezed her boyfriend's hand, and reassured her father that they would keep that in mind.
That this response wasn't followed by a disclaimer worried Roger and Emily just a bit.
oo00OO00oo
Leeds
The joy on the girl's face as she played with a magically animated stuffed animal was heartening.
The relief on the faces of her parents, once they were given a "rational" explanation for her bouts of accidental magic, was palpable.
"But for how long?" McGonagall wondered, as she looked around the council flat and counted mouths to feed.
"Mr. and Mrs. Heath," she asked, "Is there someplace…quieter…where we could discuss enrollment details?"
The mother's facial expression tightened when she caught Minerva's eye.
"We've no one to mind the children," she stated.
McGonagall nodded in understanding, thinking it just as well that a friend or neighbor wasn't brought into the picture. She nodded towards the corner of the living room.
"I can cast a spell that will keep our conversation private. You will still be able to see and hear the children, and they will see you."
The mother kept hold of the toddler that was glued to her hip as McGonagall cast a privacy charm.
"So now that you've riled our daughter up with talk of attending a magic school…what's the cost?"
The Deputy Headmistress addressed the father's question head-on.
"First year tuition is 2,300 galleons," she stated, quickly adding, "That's roughly 11,500 pounds sterling."
"Christ," the father muttered.
"That's a lot of money," the mother stated more loudly.
McGonagall nodded in agreement. "It is, although from what I've heard our tuition fees are in line with non-magical public schools."
"What makes you think we've the money for those toffy spots?"
"It is a boarding school, Mr. Heath," McGonagall noted. "You wouldn't need to house or feed your daughter during term."
"Is there a day school option?" the mother asked.
Minerva shook her head. "Not at Hogwarts…that's only available at the hedge schools."
"Hedge schools?" the father asked. "So there are other magical schools that she could attend?"
"Yes, but with boarding fees they aren't much cheaper."
"I thought you said that these other schools accepted day students?"
The elderly witch felt her age as she let out a sigh.
"They do," McGonagall replied. "Unfortunately, none of them are within walking distance of here, or accessible by Muggle transportation."
"How do day students get to these schools, then?"
"They use our floo network to travel back and forth from their homes…that's our most popular form of magical transportation."
"So it's a matter of getting our flat connected to this magical network?"
"Yes, it is. Unfortunately, that's not an option for you."
"Why not?"
McGonagall glanced around the flat. "Is there a fireplace in this flat?"
"No, it's all central heating. Why?"
"Fireplaces are the entrance and exit points for the floo network."
"What? So you have to walk into and out of an unlit fireplace to travel that way?"
"It requires a lit fire, actually," Minerva noted. "You throw floo powder into the fire to activate the network and protect you from burning."
"That sounds barmy," the father stated.
McGonagall agreed, while noting that it does work that way, and that some witches and wizards would say the same about flying in heavier-than-air aircraft.
"What if we were able to move into one of those older council houses?" the mother asked. "I wager they have fireplaces."
"That would solve one problem, but expose another," McGonagall stated. "There is currently a two year-long waiting list for approval and installation of a new floo connection."
"No priority given for unexpected needs such as this?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Are there public connections?" the mother asked. "Maybe a local government office, or the magical equivalent of a bus or train station?"
"There are pubs and restaurants that allow the public to use their floos for a small fee," Minerva stated. "But as far as I know, the nearest one from Leeds is in Blackpool."
"Are there other magical ways to travel?"
"There are, although the only option for a witch your daughter's age would be the Knight Bus."
"Could that bus travel to a day school?"
"It could, but our government doesn't allow it," said an increasingly exasperated McGonagall. "They say that they're looking out for the safety of underaged witches or wizards…but there's only one bus operating across all of Magical Britain. With the floo network available, I doubt they see a need to expand capacity, or establish a route schedule that would allow students to get to school on time each morning."
"All well and good if you have a floo connection in your home."
"Yes, the system certainly favors magical households."
"Also seems to insist that households that are new to magic send their kids to your school!"
"I understand why you might think that."
"Is there a reason why I shouldn't?"
Minerva let out a deep breath as she glanced towards the eleven-year-old witch.
"I'm very sorry. I agree that the system is flawed, and problematic for Muggleborns."
"Does your school have a scholarship program" the mother asked.
"Not presently."
"Could we at least spread the tuition payment out over monthly installments?"
"That was actually proposed a few years back but was voted down by our Board of Governors."
"What if we can't afford the tuition?" the father asked.
Minerva frowned as she let out a deep breath through her nose.
"It's imperative that all children born to magic receive the training that is required to control it," she declared. "Without it, the bouts of accidental magic that your daughter experiences will only occur more frequently, and I'm afraid, much more energetically."
"Her bouts haven't at all been…energetic, as you say."
"That will change, particularly during puberty," McGonagall declared. "To the point of posing a risk to herself…and to your family…and also to the Wizarding world."
"What's the wizarding world got to do with it?"
"Spectacular displays of accidental magic within the non-magical world put the safety and secrecy of the wizarding world at risk."
"Why should we care about your wizarding world?" the father asked sharply. "We didn't ask for any of this."
"I understand that this is quite a shock for you," the Deputy Headmistress declared. "Unfortunately, you need to care about the wizarding world because of what will be done if your child doesn't attend a magical school."
"What can they do?"
"It's not what the magical authorities can do…it's what they will do," said McGonagall. "Which is bind your daughter's magic and remove your family's memories of my visit and her bouts of accidental magic."
"They can do that?"
"Absolutely."
"That can't be legal!" the father shouted.
While the children couldn't hear the anger and anxiety in their parents' voices, it would have been impossible for them to miss the associated facial expressions, and the tension in their bodies. This produced a predictable emotional response.
Clearly hearing and seeing their distress, the mother told her husband to carry on without her and left the magical bubble to soothe her crying children.
"I'm very sorry about all this," Minerva said. "The devolved powers of our Ministry of Magic were granted by the Crown in the Seventeenth Century. And the mandate to aggressively enforce the Statute of Secrecy is maintained at the international level by the magical equivalent of your United Nations."
The look on the father's face shifted from anger towards despair.
"This all seems so unfair," he whined. "What are we to do?"
The Deputy Headmistress thought for a few moments.
"You still have some time…Hogwarts classes begin on the first of September," she said. "It's only then that we would be required by law to report her absence to the appropriate authorities."
"Not before then?"
"Correct…so you still have a few weeks to raise the tuition payment."
"That's not going to be possible."
"There's no hope of support from family or friends?"
"Not for that amount of money, and within that amount of time."
McGonagall mulled over options that she hadn't previously considered when similar situations had occurred. She thought there was a very good chance that Harry Potter might help reestablish the scholarship fund, now that he had full access to his family vaults. Or perhaps create some sort of loan program for Muggleborn students in need of financial aid? She was willing to support either of those options with her own modest savings…but didn't want to lean upon a teenager for yet another systemic problem that should have been addressed years ago. And she didn't want to leave this family without offering something more concrete.
The decision made, Minerva pulled a jeweled pin from her shawl, then offered both the pin and her purse with Muggle currency to the Muggleborn's father.
"I can't pay your daughter's tuition," she admitted. "But there should be enough in that bag to get your family on a ferry to the Channel Islands."
"Why the Channel Islands?"
"They are under French magical jurisdiction," Minerva explained. "If you can't raise the required tuition by September first, and if we don't figure out a better alternative…bring your family and this pin to Guernsey. The pin will draw the attention of the French magical police."
"Why? What does the pin do?"
"The pin is enchanted to neutralize foul odors…very useful whenever I need to inspect the boys' dormitories."
"And that would draw attention from the French police?"
"The pin's magic will trip an alarm when you cross the magical border," Minerva explained. "The gendarmes will be waiting for you at the docks."
"Won't they just bind my daughter's magic and wipe our memories, the same as they would here?"
"No, I promise you they won't," Minerva insisted. "When they approach you, ask for magical asylum."
"What would that do for us?"
"It should make your daughter eligible for admission to the French magical school."
"But what if we couldn't afford that school's tuition?"
"Unlike Hogwarts, they have an active scholarship program, and, unlike Magical Britain, governmental assistance for magical refugees."
"But we would have to upend our family to move there. I'd have to find a new job, a new place to live…"
McGonagall nodded. "If that's too much, I could inform the magical authorities now. The wizards who would do the binding and obliviate your memories are professionals…I would be here myself to ensure that this was done properly."
"But…if this magic is a part of my daughter? How could we allow that to happen?"
The Deputy Headmistress nodded in agreement as she glanced towards the girl.
"I would hate to see it…one of our Muggleborn students is arguably the best and brightest witch of her generation."
Minerva glanced back towards the girl, and to the Hogwarts invitation that was grasped tightly in her hand. Then she turned back to the girl's father and made arrangements for her to return in a weeks' time.
She hoped to have a better plan in hand by then.
oo00OO00oo
Hidden Island
After brunch Harry suggested that they visit the yacht house and its attached tower. Roger shook his head when they walked out of the castle and onto the island's manicured grounds.
"A functional moat?" he asked. "Why would that be needed if the entire island is unplottable?"
Harry shrugged. "The castle and moat apparently predate the wards by at least a hundred years."
"Could a moat protect against a magical attack?" Emily asked.
Hermione said, "Sylvie said that one of Harry's ancestors had a strong affinity for water-based magic."
"Water-based magic?" Roger asked.
Harry grinned. "Imagine instead of falling into the water, the water falls up to you."
The tower attached to Hidden Island's yacht house stood some forty-five feet tall, with ground level storage and three levels of living space above. The living space was smartly furnished, but more functional than lavish. The most interesting furnishing was a glass display case that held a half-dozen hats.
"Well, aren't these something?" Emily asked, as she almost pressed her nose against the glass. "Are these hats reproductions, or antiques?"
"Pretty sure that they're all rather ancient," said Harry.
"But they look brand new!"
"Magic," Harry replied, as he walked up to the case and opened the door. "Want to try one on?"
"Oh, I couldn't," Emily scoffed. "I'm certain that they're too valuable!"
"Go ahead, Mum," Hermione encouraged. "No different than slapping a thousand year-old Sorting Hat onto the heads of every Hogwarts ickle firstie."
Accepting her daughter's logic, Emily selected an eighteenth-century tricorne hat that had been very fashionable during the American Revolutionary War. Roger went for something older and chose the hat that Harry would have picked...a rakish seventeenth-century Cavalier's hat festooned with a dark silk ribbon and large white feather. His fears that the hat was far too small for his head were for naught, as magical resizing charms automatically adjusted for a perfect fit.
Harry chose next, picking something with a ridiculously wide brim...a hat that Roger noted would have felt right at home on Oliver Cromwell's head. Of the remaining three, Hermione picked something similar...a hat with the same stovepipe cylindrical shape, but more modest brim. When her mum suggested that it was a style worn by the Puritans, it took a bit of resolve for Harry not to laugh out loud.
Emily's call for a group selfie drew a predictable response...Wilma the camera-carrying house elf popped into the room and staged both group shots and individual portraits. During this process, Roger asked Harry if he knew the reason behind this somewhat unusual collection. The teenaged wizard guessed that it had something to do with the fact that his family's wealth was largely generated in the beaver fur trade during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.
"Isn't that a bit early for the Hudson Bay Company, or even the French voyageurs?" Emily asked.
Hermione chuckled and nodded in agreement. "Exactly. And that timing is apparently the how and why the Potters became so fabulously wealthy."
As they returned their hats to the display case, Harry recounted his family history as his great-great auntie's portrait had told it.
While Muggle historians knew that Leif Erickson and his Norsemen were the first Europeans to travel to North America around the year 1000, the true extent of that first contact was known only within the magical world. Norse wizards traveling with Leif established an apparition station in Newfoundland that connected to stations in Greenland, and Iceland...all the way back to Scandinavia. What started as a resupply line for Viking explorers grew into an escape route for thousands of European magicals fleeing the witch hunts. These witches and wizards arrived in North America not as colonizers, but as refugees, and were allowed to form minority ethnic and linguistic communities within the North American Confederation of indigenous witches and wizards.
The Norse wizards who created the network zealously controlled trade along the magical route, but for some reason one of Harry's ancestors had gained an exclusive license to bring beaver pelts from North America back to Europe. This was a windfall for the family, particularly once the European beaver population was decimated in the mid-1500's. The Potter clan rode that windfall for more than century, until the French and English Muggles established their own fur industry and the Statute of Secrecy came into effect.
As a student of history (both muggle and, increasingly, magical) Hermione's mum had listened to Harry's story with rapt attention. Her father? Not so much, given the promised opportunity to inspect the working side of the yacht house. Roger was quick to apologize for his distracted state when his wife called him out. Harry was just as quick to accept that apology and led them towards a balcony that provided an interior view of what was now his personal flotilla of watercraft.
"Expansion charms?" Emily asked, taking in the size of the interior space.
"Museum?" Roger asked, taking in what occupied that interior space.
"More like long-term storage," Harry replied. "My ancestors apparently never considered shrinking the out-of-date boats and stuffing them into glass bottles."
"Out of date?" Roger asked. "Why would their age matter?"
Harry shrugged. "Too noticeable out on the river."
"But there are plenty of vintage tall ships out there," Roger protested. "HMS Victory…the Cutty Sark…"
"Both well-known, and moored in well-known locations, right?" asked Hermione. "The whole point of Hidden Island was to stay hidden and unnoticed."
"Such a shame, though," Roger lamented. He pointed towards a motorized wooden boat and asked, "That one isn't too far past its sale date. It shouldn't stand out on the water…right?"
Emily nodded in agreement. "Looks like the boat they used in that Hepburn movie."
"On Golden Pond?"
"Exactly."
"I've got too much on my plate to add boating lessons," said Harry. "But if you wanted to take it out…"
"But how would they find their way back?" Hermione asked.
"Oh, right…good point."
"Welly might have some ideas," said Harry.
The house elf in question popped into the conversation and noted that Harry or Hermione could guide her parents into the yacht house if they were passengers, or that Roger or Emily could call for house elf piloting assistance. Although Roger nodded in agreement, Hermione could tell that her father wasn't thrilled with having to always be dependent on magic (or magical beings) just to operate a muggle-built boat. So she suggested that they could think about other options later that evening, after a planned trip to an apparition school.
Roger wondered about his daughter's motivations when Hermione asked whether they wanted to move into the yacht house's tower. But then he remembered that his daughter was both magical and creative. And he also recalled his wife's warnings about the consequences of him overplaying the overprotective father card.
Not wishing to risk interrupting the longest string of nightly shags since they'd abandoned efforts to provide Hermione a sibling, Roger declared that the bedroom Emily and he were using was more than good enough.
Hermione could almost see the gears spinning in her father's head but was kind enough (and smart enough) not to tease. She did promise to work out some way for her parents to cruise the river (or sail on the river) on their own.
Giving her parents one more reason to steer clear of Britain would certainly be worth the effort.
oo00OO00oo
Gare Windsor, Montreal
The customer service skills at Gare Windsor were on par with those displayed the day before.
"Vomiting on the portkey platform is prohibited!"
Hermione turned away from her sallow-faced mother and gave the surly transit worker an evil glare.
"A little sympathy, if you please?" she asked, as she gathered up the portkey's chain. "It is only her second trip via portkey."
"That's not my problem," the wizard barked back. "Barf bags are two sprinks. If she vomits without one, it'll cost double."
Emily held up her hand and said, "I'll be fine."
Harry walked up to the attendant and tried to ask a question in French.
"Today, purchase we…pass of the month?"
The wizard scowled, and roughly gestured towards the same booth that had been closed the day before. Harry leaned far enough forward to see that someone was actually inside.
"Bien," he stated, as he held out six silver coins.
The attended looked at the coins and rolled his eyes.
"The fee is sixteen sprinks," he declared in English.
"But it was only six yesterday?"
"For the four of you?"
"Well, no...just two."
"The fee is three sprinks per person. Four during peak service hours."
"Peak surcharges on a Sunday?" Roger asked.
The attendant scoffed, and roughly gestured towards a small sign that displayed the fee structure.
Harry opened his money pouch and fished out a single dragot.
"Twenty nine sprinks to the dragot, right?" he asked in English.
The attendant showed off his facial expression skills by rolling his eyes in the opposite direction.
"La-la-la…and seven days to the week, and twelve months to the year," he muttered, as he made change.
The person staffing the booth asked whether they would like to purchase a combination pass that covered both the portkey platform and the floo network. Hermione looked at the posted rates, then asked what the difference was between the "express floo" and its non-express counterpart. The worker explained that the express network was faster, didn't involve spinning, and didn't include glimpses into other people's floo-connected houses.
When Hermione translated all of this into English for Harry's benefit, he wondered out loud why anyone would use the standard floo network when express trips were an option. The worker laughed and explained (in English) that aside from the extra cost, some people actually liked getting glimpses into other people's floo-connected houses. He then waggled his eyebrows and added that after the posted family-friendly transit hours, some floo-connected exhibitionists offered rather naughty glimpses of their "private" residences.
Speed and settled stomachs easily won out over prurient curiosity, and four deluxe monthly transit passes were purchased. The magical camera used to include a headshot within each pass was jinxed to produce an image even less flattering than those generated within muggle driver license facilities.
oo00OO00oo
Le Bel Patinoire de Vol ("The Beautiful Air Rink")
La Tuque, Nitaskinan (La Tuque, Quebec)
North American Confederation (Canada)
The express floo worked as advertised, providing nausea-free travel within a warm cocoon of bright flames and boring elevator music. But as there were no guarantees about enhanced arrivals, Harry emerged from their destination's floo connection with his standard level of grace. Fortunately, he had gone last, allowing Roger to serve as a human shield that blocked the teenager from bowling over a half-dozen kids.
"Sorry about that," Harry muttered, as the children giggled.
"No worries," Roger replied. "Nice to see that there's at least one magical thing that I can do well...at least by comparison."
"Daddy, stop picking on my boyfriend," Hermione whined, as she dusted the residual soot from Harry's shoulders.
A young woman who was with the group of kids asked (in accented English) whether Harry was, in fact, okay. Once he confirmed that he wasn't hurt, the woman identified herself as a rink employee, and asked if she could help in some other way...she was about to tutor the children during a public flight session, but could answer a quick question, or point them in the right direction.
Hermione asked about signing up for apparition lessons.
Harry asked about the public flight sessions.
The woman looked at her watch, and told them that her father, who was both the rink manager and apparition instructor, was just finishing up a private lesson, and could provide answers on both topics.
Another eight-year-old stepped out of the floo, followed closely by a parent. The young girl scampered towards the other kids without breaking stride. This led to some more laughter and finger pointing, as Harry's arrival was recounted and reenacted within the group of French-speaking children.
The short wait for the attendant's father allowed Harry and the Grangers to take in their surroundings. They had flooed into the front end of an indoor aerodrome…the wizarding world's version of a hockey arena. The enclosed area had a "normal" ceiling height, and a bank of interior windows that offered views of a magically-expanded area that was large enough for indoor Quidditch matches.
Benches in front of those windows were filled with hand-holding couples, teenagers, and families with broomsticks that were the magical equivalent of minivans. All were wearing color-coded wristbands that indicated which speed zones areas they were allowed to fly in during the public session. There was a short queue in front of a counter where those wristbands could be purchased. That counter was next to a desk where house brooms could be rented and personal brooms could be serviced. And on the far side of the waiting area was a snack bar, which offered a variety of muggle and magical foods and drinks.
A teen-aged girl and an older man wearing a logo jacket walked out of the aerodrome with broomsticks on their shoulders. As the girl's father approached, the man put his hand on her shoulder and offered some words of encouragement. After a short conversation with the father, he drifted towards his own daughter, who had waved him over towards Harry, Hermione and her parents.
The daughter explained in French that Harry and Hermione were interested in apparition lessons. The father took off his figurative flying coach hat, donned his figurative apparition instructor hat, and provided a quick overview of their program.
Apparition lessons were offered every other week, with bi-lingual morning classes spread over four consecutive days prior to a bureaucrat-proctored examination on the fifth. Students who either failed that examination could retake the course with a 30% discount on tuition fees. There were also advanced classes for students who wished to learn side-along apparition, or to increase their licensed range.
While there were other apparition schools in Salem and New York that could be reached by family portkey, everything sounded straightforward, and there were openings in the session that started the following day.
The apparition instructor led Harry and the Grangers to his office, walking against traffic as people streamed into the air rink. Fees were paid and forms were filled out. The instructor wasn't bothered by Harry and Hermione's inability to write down anything more detailed than "Hidden Island" for a residential address, as they weren't the first European teens to travel to North America for early apparition lessons.
After a short, whispered conversation, Harry and Hermione decided to use his French rental property for their "permanent" address. The apparition instructor raised an eyebrow when he learned that they lived at "Beyond the reach of the Headmaster, France," but didn't ask for clarification.
Once the enrollment process was completed, Harry pointed towards a poster on the office wall and asked about a different class offering. He was surprised to learn that in North America, witches and wizards needed to be licensed to fly a broomstick outdoors. The instructor explained that it was really no different than needing a license to drive a car, and that you also needed an insurance policy to fly outdoors. That insurance coverage was less about dented brooms or flying-related injuries, and more about covering the response costs should an irresponsible broomstick flyer be spotted by non-magicals.
Harry was keen to sign-up for that course as well. Hermione, predictably, less so. Those flight classes were held on the weeks opposite of apparition classes and included both classroom and practical instruction. When Harry asked whether there was any way he could test out of at least the practical portion of the class, the instructor told him that for a modest fee he could assess the teenager's flight skills right then, during the public fly session.
A fistful of dragots and sprinks quickly appeared on the instructor's desk, without regard for the actual amount of that "modest fee."
The instructor asked about Harry's previous experience flying on broomsticks.
"Well, at school I was the seeker for my house's Quidditch team."
Not happy with her boyfriend's modesty, Hermione added, "He also managed to outfly a Hungarian Horntail a couple of years ago."
"Vraiment? Un dragon?"
Harry shrugged and nodded his head.
The instructor narrowed his gaze for a moment, then shrugged his own shoulders. He led Harry and the Grangers back into the entrance area, then walked into the stick rental room. The instructor returned with a blue-handled broomstick (labeled "de location") and offered it to Harry.
"Have you flown a Starseeker before?" he asked.
Harry shook his head as he ran his hand down the length of the handle and inspected the twigs.
"I have a Firebolt back in Britain...how does it compare?"
The instructor's eyes widened at the response.
"Handles roughly the same, but top speed is thirty kilometers per hour slower."
"Pity," said Harry. "So when does flying test begin?"
The instructor handed Harry a wristband and replied, "Right now, if you'd like…we'll use the green zone."
Harry's eyes lit up with delight when they all walked through the doors and into the enlarged flight rink. The enlarged space was divided into color-coded zones that were stacked on one another, and the highest green zone didn't appear to have any speed limits.
Mounting the loaner broom, Harry looked back over his shoulder, yelled "Tag, you're it!", and launched himself into the air.
"You're going the wrong way!" the tutor shouted out. "Fly counter-clockwise!"
Harry acknowledged the instruction with a hand wave, then immediately accelerated into a near-vertical climb.
"What's he doing?" Roger asked, as Harry leaned back even further, turning the steep ascent into an inverted loop that left him hanging upside-down.
"Performing stupid teenaged wizard tricks," Hermione replied with a sigh.
The instructor watched with disbelief as Harry swung his inverted body upwards at the top of his loop and flew in the opposite direction without any loss in acceleration.
"Holy shit! An Immelmann turn!"
Catching his breath, the instructor immediately turned towards the Grangers and sheepishly asked them to pardon his English.
Emily waved off the apology, declaring the coarse comment entirely appropriate for the situation.
oo00OO00oo
Headmaster's Office
Hogwarts
Albus Dumbledore pulled his head out of the fireplace just as a house elf delivered another pair of addressed envelopes. Those envelopes confirmed that Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were still at a "Beautiful Air Rink" that was located within a French-speaking region of the North American Confederation. The headmaster added the envelopes to the pile on his desk and ordered the house elf to keep them coming. He then sat behind his desk and tried to integrate what he'd just learned into his schemes.
Harry Potter had started the day at an unknown location, spent an hour at the location that was beyond the headmaster's reach, and then returned to the unknown location. He had apparently spent the rest of their morning there with Hermione Granger, before briefly appearing at a Muggle train station in the city of Montreal. They then travelled to an "Air Rink," which, according to the British Quidditch League administrator that he'd just talked with, was an indoor aerodrome that was large enough to play a quidditch match. The two teens had now spent between 20 and 28 minutes at that location.
The implications and motivations started to fall into place within Albus' mind. Harry Potter's lifetime Quidditch ban was still on the books at the Ministry of Magic. Getting that ban lifted had been on Dumbledore's to-do list, especially once the toad who had enacted the ban had been thoroughly discredited. But that task had been lower on his to-do list than the horcrux hunt, and had dropped even lower once the consequences of that hunt had withered his arm and forced a mortality check.
Was all of this travel an outgrowth of an impatient teen-ager's desire to fly?
A quick floo call to Molly Weasley revealed that she'd kept her promise to keep Harry's nose clean and had enforced the ministry's ban in their backyard. As a result, Harry and his good friend Ron had been forced into playing backyard Quidditch on the ground. Running around with broom handles tucked between their legs, as if they were flying…how ridiculous! How embarrassing! Little wonder that the boy ran to a country…or confederation…that wouldn't enforce that ban. Countries that shamelessly leveraged the boy's needs and desires towards their own ends!
So Harry Potter had found a way to fly again. Well, it would be a simple matter for Dumbledore to visit the Department of Magical Games and Sports and get the ban lifted. That, along with the carrot of a captain's badge, should be more than enough to bring the prodigal son home. Dumbledore could even provide the Air Rink's mailing address to the Department, and suggest that they might want to share the good news with Harry themselves. That would be a very convenient way of working around the lopsided deal he'd been forced into in order to gain Severus Snape's release.
The lifetime ban couldn't get lifted on a Sunday evening, but the task could wait…the brief delay would provide more than enough time for the headmaster to convince himself that revealing Harry Potter's location to a third party didn't count as an attempted contact.
oo00OO00oo
La Tuque, Nitaskinan (Quebec)
Fifteen minutes and a couple of stupid teenaged wizard tricks later, Harry and the flight instructor landed their brooms in the bleachers, next to where Hermione and her parents had watched.
"Honestly, Harry," the teenaged witch whined. "Did you really need to complete a Wronski Feint for the practical?"
"Nah, that was for those pint-sized pip-squeaks who were making fun of my floo arrival."
Roger glanced towards the ground-hugging red zone, where the grade-school flyers had all abandoned their game of follow-the-leader to gawk at Harry's antics.
"Well, I guess you put those baby broomers in their place," he quipped.
"I dare say most everyone was watching you two play tag," said Emily.
"With good reason," the air rink manager said, as he fished a paper card and muggle pen from his pocket. He signed the card and handed it to Harry.
"Needless to say, you're a qualified flyer. Couple of classroom hours going over the rules of the sky, an insurance card, and then you'll be licensed."
"Excellent," Harry replied.
"If you don't mind young man…how old are you?"
"Just turned sixteen, why?"
"Ah, what a shame…do you have a family advisor?"
"A what?"
"A family advisor…someone who is not a paid agent that helps guide an amateur athlete towards a professional career."
"An arrangement that doesn't endanger the athlete's amateur status?" Roger asked.
"Exactly."
Harry asked, "Are you thinking that I might be good enough to play professional Quidditch someday?"
The instructor shrugged. "Professional Quidditch? Probably…but professional broom racing? Absolutely!"
"Professional broom racing?" Hermione asked. "Is that a sport?"
The instructor smiled as he gestured towards the wall behind the bleachers and declared, "But of course!"
Harry and the Grangers looked back over their shoulders and spotted two magically-animated banners. One of the signs featured a broomstick-flying beaver who was swatting a bludger with its tail. It proudly declared that the air rink was the home of "Les Castors." The second sign had a comet streaking across its top and said the same about the local professional broom racing team ("Les Comètes").
The flight instructor fished a different card from his wallet and handed it to Harry. The animated card had several positions sequentially fade-in and fade-out beneath his name. In addition to being a rink manager, licensed apparition instructor, and flying instructor, the man coached the Comètes. He then said that he would be more than happy to arrange for an official try-out for their junior team.
When Emily asked what that would involve, the man asked whether the remainder of their afternoon was free. He then joked about having an "in" with the rink manager and said that he could reschedule a booking or two, bring in the team owner and a couple of racing team members, and reconfigure the air rink for Harry's try-out.
Harry was quick to agree, and almost as quick to apologize to Hermione and her parents for not first asking for their input. That apology was declared unnecessary, but accepted nonetheless.
There was about an hour left in the public session. The rink manager asked if Hermione or her parents wanted to try to test-out of the practical portion of their flying license. They quickly declined this offer. The manager then pulled out colored wrist bands that would allow them to fly as passengers on Harry's broomstick. After her parents declined the offered opportunity, Hermione attached a wristband, climbed onto Harry's broomstick, and hugged him tightly. As he guided them away from the bleachers and steered towards the zone favored by other couples Hermione joked about the last time they had shared a broomstick, during their flight across the Channel behind a naked Veela.
Roger and Emily were too far away to hear the joke, but close enough to enjoy seeing their daughter and her boyfriend acting more like normal teenagers.
"They're a cute couple…which one is yours?"
Slightly surprised, Roger and Emily turned towards a woman who had just sat down on the bleachers with a paper cup of coffee in her hand.
"Hermione is our daughter," Roger replied warily.
"English?" the woman asked. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry for my forwardness."
"That's quite alright."
An awkward silence followed.
Feeling a tiny bit embarrassed by the curt tone of her husband's voice, Emily nodded towards the airspace and asked, "Do you have someone out there?"
The woman smiled widely, as if she'd just won a prize. She proudly pointed towards the center of the lowest (and slowest-flying) zone and asked, "See the girl practicing her sloth-grip roll? That's my granddaughter."
Emily spotted the pre-teen flying on a pink broomstick, then looked back towards the woman sipping coffee.
"Really?" she asked. "But you look far too young to be a grandmother!"
The woman chuckled, pegging the Grangers as no-maj's.
"It's ironic, you know," she told them. "Even though witches and wizards live longer lives than those who lack magic, we tend to marry much earlier."
"Really?"
The woman nodded. "I was married at eighteen and a mother by nineteen. My daughter married at the same age and made me a grandmother two years later. That was nine years ago."
A breath caught in Roger's throat as he quickly did the math. This woman had a nine-year-old granddaughter, but didn't look a day over thirty, and was the same age that he was!
Emily was more interested in the woman's marriage age.
"Is there some magical reason why witches and wizards tend to marry young?"
The woman shrugged.
"Most people think that magic is involved, but that hasn't been proven," she replied. "There are some other reasons…most witches and wizards enter the workforce right out of secondary school…relatively few go on to college, or its magical equivalent."
"That makes sense," said Emily. "Our parents' and grandparents' generations also married young, back when relatively few attended uni."
The woman nodded, and said, "I think the other big factor is the size of our prospect pools. People with magic tend to marry others that have magic…"
"Because of prejudice?"
"In some instances, certainly," the woman noted. "But even if you aren't prejudiced against someone that lacks magic…it really is a lot easier to live in a magical community, or to mind the Statute of Secrecy, when both partners are magical."
"So if you are a witch that wants to marry a wizard, and if the number of available wizards is much lower than the total number of available men, then…?"
"Then you grab the good ones at school, before they get away from you," the woman said with a laugh. "You also think long and hard before filing for divorce."
Roger's eyes drifted towards the rink. He spotted his daughter pressed tightly against her boyfriend, with her arms wrapped his chest. He let out a deep breath, and asked, "So you're telling me that in the wizarding world, high school sweethearts are more likely to not only marry, but to marry young?"
Emily pulled her husband into a side hug and dropped her head on his shoulders.
"Look on the bright side, Dear," she told him. "He's rich, he's handsome, and he no longer seems insistent on carrying magical Britain on his shoulders."
"He also isn't named Ronald Weasley," Roger noted.
"Huzzah!" Emily gleefully exclaimed.
oo00OO00oo
Headmaster's Office
Hogwarts
Minerva's plan to confront the school's headmaster over the need to reinstate needs-based scholarships at Hogwarts was quickly derailed when she entered his office.
"Ah, how fortuitous," said Albus Dumbledore, as he sat behind his desk. "I was just about to dispatch a house elf to request your presence."
McGonagall frowned, not just because of her boss's presumptive command of her summer weekend schedule, but due to what he was holding in his one good hand….both a Gryffindor prefect's badge and the Gryffindor quidditch captain's badge.
"Do you require my assistance, Headmaster?" she asked.
"Yes, I need you to award both of these badges to Hermione Granger."
Minerva's eyebrows arched towards her hairline.
"Both, Headmaster?"
"Yes, both of them."
After a very pregnant pause, McGonagall asked, "You do know, Albus, that Miss Granger has never been a member of the Gryffindor quidditch team?"
"Yes, I am aware of that fact."
"And that to the best of my knowledge she hasn't even solo'ed a broomstick since her first year?"
Dumbledore shook his head in an enigmatic arc.
"While I cannot match your understanding of the skills and capabilities within your house, I am aware of Miss Granger's wariness of broomstick flying."
"Then…why are you asking me to deliberately sabotage my house's team?"
"I happen to believe that what I am asking will actually result in the complete opposite."
"How so?"
Dumbledore laid the two badges on his desktop and took hold of a handwritten note that was already sitting there.
"It is all made clear in this letter," he explained, handing the parchment to McGonagall. She took the note and quickly skimmed its contents.
"I see," she tersely stated. "Should I send this letter along with the badges and booklists?"
"Well, actually…I was hoping that you would rewrite it in your own hand. Adding, of course, any personal notes or flourishes that would reassure Miss Granger that the letter is indeed coming from you."
"As opposed to you sending a letter that is mostly intended for Miss Granger's boyfriend?"
"You think so little of me, Minerva?" the Headmaster replied. "Last I checked, it is the privilege of each house head to personally notify and congratulate their new prefects and team captains.
"Right," Minerva replied skeptically. "And do you have an address to send these off to?"
Dumbledore used his good hand to point towards the stack of envelopes on his desk.
"Any of those addressed to Miss Granger would do," he declared.
Minerva didn't fail to notice that there were two names on the letters, which all shared the same address. She picked up one that had Hermione's name on top, and asked, "Do you wish anything else of me, headmaster?"
"No, Minerva, other than asking you to send the letter off by owl post this evening."
McGonagall nodded and left the headmaster's office without further comment. As she rode down the revolving staircase, she began to mentally compose a second message that needed to be sent that night…a letter that would arrive much more quickly, even if it had to travel on a diversionary route.
oo00OO00oo
The Beautiful Air Rink
As the end of the public fly session approached, the rink manager introduced Roger and Emily to his wife Caroline, and asked if it would be alright if Harry's racing team try-out took place behind closed doors. Hermione's parents explained that Harry was an emancipated teenager (at least in Britain), and that they were only his girlfriend's parents. But that didn't keep Roger from asking what would take place during the try-out, or for Emily to gain assurances that there would adequate safety measures in place, and medical assistance available, if needed.
When Harry and Hermione spotted the coach talking with her parents, they flew back to the stands to see what was up. When the situation was explained, Harry's main concern was whether it'd be an imposition on the Grangers. The coach's wife spoke up and offered to host Hermione and parents at a local restaurant during the try-out session. With the details thus sorted, Hermione gave her boyfriend a kiss for luck before he went off with the rink-manager/coach to check out potential broomstick upgrades from the racing team's closet.
Rather than travel by floo to the restaurant, the coach's wife guided the Grangers towards a seldom-used doorway that sat next to the rink's floo connection. A sign next to this door said (in both French and English), "Warning - You are now leaving Nitaskinan and entering a no-maj zone. Dress appropriately." The woman glanced back at her guests to confirm they were dressed appropriately, then opened the door. Hermione was going to ask about this sign but was distracted by the foul smell that hit all of them in the face.
Caroline noticed the involuntary response and smiled as they walked out onto the street.
"First visit to a mill town?"
"Yes, if that's the source of that smell," Emily replied.
The local woman nodded. "I can't smell it, so it must be the paper mill."
"Is there a magical way to block it?"
Caroline shrugged. "Might be, but it isn't necessary. Everyone who spends enough time in town becomes nose blind."
Hermione imagined that a bubblehead charm would be quicker but didn't think it would be very polite to cast one, particularly if they were in a non-magical public space.
The Grangers oohed and aahed at the air rink's improbably small exterior footprint (as viewed from the street). Their guide confirmed that the two-story brick and mortar building exterior was real, and that magic had been used to enlarge the interior, rather than conceal the true size of the exterior.
Roger took in the small-town vibe as their host led them down the street.
"How far away are we from Montreal?"
"Roughly three hundred kilometers north."
"And the town's name is Nitaskinan?" Emily asked.
Their guide shook her head. "This is the city of La Toque…Nitaskinan is the name of the local magical province." She then pointed out the hat-shaped mountain that gave the city its name.
"So Nitaskinan is the equivalent of Quebec?" asked Hermione.
"Geographically no, but administratively yes."
There was enough time during their walk for a bit of geographical and historical elaboration. The boundaries of the NAC's regional governments roughly lined up with the indigenous tribal boundaries that existed when the confederation was formed (or when new lands were added). Nitaskinan (or "Our Land," in English) was the name given to the upper Saint-Maurice River valley by the Atikamekw people who'd lived there for centuries. And that name was retained as the name of the regional magical government even after the non-magical French sailed up the St. Lawrence River and drew up their own boundaries.
The restaurant at the end of their walk offered far more inviting smells than the city itself. The hostess greeted Caroline warmly and led them to a booth at the back of the restaurant that she insisted was suitable for either magical or non-magical conversations.
Roger scanned the menu.
"We had a rather large brunch this morning," he noted. "Do you recommend any of the appetizers?"
Caroline smiled, and asked, "Have you had poutine?"
Roger chuckled. "You have a dish that's named after a Russian politician?"
"No…it's called poo-teen, not poo-tin."
"I'm sorry for my husband's poor sense of humor," Emily interjected.
The rink manager's wife laughed and claimed that her husband's sense of humor was no richer. She then described the dish, claiming the restaurant's turkey gravy to be the best she'd ever tasted.
After their waitress took their order, Hermione asked about the local magical community. When Caroline mentioned that La Tuque only had 11,000 residents and that very few of them were magical, Roger wondered how a city that small could support a top-level professional sports team. Their guide explained that "Les Castors" and "Les Comètes" were the hometown teams for Montreal, Quebec City, and all of Nouvelle France. This led to another, much longer geography lesson.
When the non-Magical French claimed "New France" as their own and settled along the St. Lawrence River Valley, most of the French-speaking witches and wizards who were already in North America (thanks to the Norsca Network) moved there as well. It was easier for them to blend in with their former countrymen, and having French-speaking European witches and wizards sprinkled along the valley made its magical administration easier (especially once the Statute of Secrecy took effect). Long thin strips of land along the banks of the St. Lawrence were carved out from the existing NAC indigenous territories (via equitable treaties) to form a magical district with its own local government. And that magical district didn't change hands when the non-magical French were defeated by the non-magical British on the Plains of Abraham in 1759.
As for why the two sports teams were based so far away from main population centers? Distances didn't matter so long as La Tuque was connected to the regional floo network, and historically there were good reasons to put the team and their facilities as far north as possible. The city was on the edge of the hinterlands…a vast, sparsely-populated area of boreal forests and wetlands that extended all the way to Hudson Bay and the Artic Ocean. Up until the 1950's, witches and wizards could fly broomsticks over the hinterlands with little fear of being spotted, and Quidditch matches could be played in unwarded open air stadiums. La Tuque was the logical place to locate Montreal's outdoor stadium, just as the small town of Hammersley in northwestern Ontario hosted Toronto's team (the "Hammers," who were Les Castors' long-time rival).
The conversation paused when the double order of poutine arrived at the table. Roger grabbed a gravy-lathered chip and declared it delicious. Caroline was glad to hear it and warned the Grangers to never order the dish outside of Quebec, as it would, "almost certainly be a monstrosity drowned in vastly inferior beef gravy."
Roger picked up the conversation when he asked whether radar had changed things in the 1950's. Caroline confirmed his suspicions. NORAD's continental-wide network of early-warning radar stations, built to detect Soviet nuclear-armed bombers, was sensitive enough to track broomstick flights over the hinterlands. The radar systems that supported civil aviation were just as bad (or good, depending on your perspective). In response, the NAC had built magically-expanded indoor stadiums for each NAC Super League Quidditch team, with seating for a few thousand spectators (as well as a full-scale, heavily-warded regional stadium in the Canadian Rockies). While Les Castors' air rink could have been built anywhere within reach of the regional floo network, the combined forces of tradition, sentimentality, and local businesses worked to keep the team based in La Tuque.
Hermione wondered out loud how Hogwarts quidditch teams were able to play in an outdoor school stadium (and wondered to herself why their flight to London on the backs of thestrals hadn't been intercepted by the RAF). Caroline didn't know enough about Britain and its airspace to answer the question.
The conversation then turned to La Tuque's other professional sports team.
"Could you tell us more about professional broom racing?" asked Hermione. "I don't think we have that in Britain."
The flight instructor's wife frowned.
"That's too bad," she declared. "Broom racing is a fantastic sport!"
"Anything like Formula One?" asked Roger.
"Yes, we have broom races around horizontal courses," Caroline replied. "I think it's a little boring, but it's the easiest way to race indoors."
Emily thought that watching Harry zip and zag around the air rink was exhilarating, so she asked, "More boring than what?"
Their guide's eyes lit up.
"Alpine racing… on brooms instead of skis."
There was a pause in the conversation, as Hermione and her parents imagined what that might look like.
"Low-altitude flights down a mountains slope?" Roger asked. "That would be one way to deal with Muggle radar."
"Exactly."
"But broomsticks are so much faster than skis," said Emily. "Those races must be over in a blink of the eye!"
The coach's wife chuckled.
"The race doesn't end once you reach the bottom of the first mountain," she explained.
"Harry would like that," Hermione decided. "A lot."
"More than Quidditch?" her father asked.
Hermione shrugged.
"He loves having teammates…his school team really was his family," she explained. "But when you're a seeker? That's always seemed more like an individual sport…a one-v-one match against the other team's seeker."
Caroline agreed. She then went on to describe the different styles of broom racing in more detail, until her husband sent a text message saying that the try-out was over.
On the way back to the rink Roger did think to ask whether the local teams were any good. Caroline proudly stated that the Comets were the reining NAC senior club champion. As for quidditch…Les Castors were an "Original Six" member of the NAC Super Quidditch League, just like Montreal's NHL hockey team. They had also been one of the league's most successful teams over the past thirty years. This was quite unlike Montreal's NHL hockey team, to the dismay of their fans on both sides of the Statute of Secrecy.
oo00OO00oo
Hermione's confidence in her boyfriend's flying skills and the near-certainty that he would have a successful try-out did nothing to diminish her excitement (and, she'd admit, pride) when she spotted Harry wearing both a wide smile and a new tackle twill sweatshirt emblazoned with Comet's logo. She raced to embrace Harry while the rink manager and team's owner started a conversation with her parents.
Harry had held-his-own against the professionals during his racing team tryout…well enough for the team owner to say that he would offer the teenager a professional contract on the spot, if he could. Unfortunately, the NAC's professional broom racing league held an entry draft each spring, with a minimum draft age of sixteen. This meant that Harry couldn't be drafted and turn pro until the following spring. The best the Comets could offer was a roster spot on their junior racing team…while he wouldn't get paid, it was a Tier 1 program with a professional coach and all equipment, training, and travel expenses paid for. They also offered to assign Harry to a billet family, if that was needed.
Roger and Emily were unfamiliar with the term. The team owner explained that if a player had to move away from their home to play for a junior team, the club would pay a local host family to provide room and board. He assured Hermione's parents that these billet families were carefully screened to ensure that they would provide a stable environment for a teenager while they were away from their home. Hermione suggested that a stable living environment would be a nice change of pace for her boyfriend, but it was clearly meant as a joke, as the offer didn't extend to a player's significant other. She did have some unvoiced concerns that Harry might be swept up by both the thrill of flying after Umbridge's ban and successful tryout, but the questions about time commitments, NEWTs and Dark Lords could be saved for later.
oo00OO00oo
Hidden Island
Welly was introducing Harry and the Grangers to the intricate and messy art of making s'mores when Dobby popped onto Hidden Island's sandy beach with an important message from Harry's liegeman. The messy-haired teen didn't wait to clean the marshmallow from his fingers before pulling a piece of parchment from the envelope.
"Bad news?" asked Roger.
Harry shook his head with a sly smile and muttered, "Cheeky bastard."
"Bill?" asked Hermione.
"No, Dumbledore," Harry replied, as he handed the sticky-edged message to his girlfriend. "Congratulations, Captain Granger."
"Captain who?" asked Emily.
"The Headmaster tracked our visit to the aerodrome," Hermione told her parents, after a quick skim of the message. "He's strong-armed Professor McGonagall into sending my book list for the new year there, along with my badges."
"Badges…plural?"
"Yes…on top of being a sixth-year prefect, I'm apparently to be offered the captaincy for Gryffindor's quidditch team."
"Don't you have to actually like flying on broomsticks to be a team captain?"
"One might think so," Harry replied. "McGonagall says the offer letter, once it arrives by owl post, will give Hermione the option of giving the captain's badge to a housemate, if she thinks that they're better qualified."
"So what's our response?" Roger asked.
Hermione paused for a moment to think…not so much about a response as the fact that her father used the word "our" and seemed to be deferring to his underage daughter and her boyfriend.
Her boyfriend added on to the deference by asking, "What do you think, Hermione?"
After a few more moments of thought, Hermione asked her boyfriend how his French lessons were progressing.
oo00OO00oo
Later that evening…
Basking in the afterglow of orgasm, Hermione laid her head against Harry's bare thighs. It had been four hours since they'd received Minerva's written warning, one hour after she'd said goodnight to her parents, thirty-eight minutes after Pebbles had popped her into her boyfriend's opened arms, and twenty seconds after they had completed an exhaustive round of sex within the yacht house's bedroom.
Dwelling more on the latter than any of the former, she reached out and took hold of her favorite tuckered-out toy.
"More?" Harry asked with surprise.
Hermione replied with a playful tug.
"You'd be up for it?" she teased.
Pebbles popped onto the bed with a stamina potion in hand.
"Harry!" Hermione playfully scolded. "Did you wish for that potion under your breath?"
"No!" Harry protested. "Did you?"
Hermione rolled her eyes before turning to the young house elf. After commending Pebbles' initiative, she stated that in the future they would call out Pebbles' name and clearly ask for that kind of potion, should it ever be necessary.
Pebbles glanced towards Hermione's grip, anticipated its near-term effect, and smiled. After a curtsy so low that her nose almost grazed her master's belly, she popped away.
"So not necessary right now, huh?" Harry teased.
"You'd know better than me."
Something caught Hermione's eye, causing her to tug a little more insistently to gain a better view.
"Who taught you the depilatory charm?" she asked.
"What?"
Hermione pulled up on Harry's penis and took a close look at his scrotum.
"It's been four nights since Fleur cut down your thicket," she noted. "But not a hint of stubble."
Harry lifted his head for a better view and frowned.
"Should there be?"
"Definitely."
Harry shrugged. "Guess I wouldn't know, given that this is my first time."
"So who taught you the charm?" Hermione asked. "Or did you ask someone for help?"
"I didn't learn the charm, and I didn't ask for help."
"But then how…?"
"Maybe my pubes are too afraid to pop out and get tagged with trackers again?"
"Pubic hairs aren't sentient, Sweetheart."
"Maybe not, but if magic is mostly intent…"
"Then every witch would have tits as big as Lavender's."
Harry laughed out loud as he reached down and squeezed the nearest breast.
"Your tits are the perfect size, sweetheart," he declared. He then asked, "Did I ever tell you about the time my dear Aunt Petunia shaved my head?"
A recounting of the event and his miraculous overnight hair restoration led Hermione to worry her lip with her teeth as she considered possibilities.
"Could have just been accidental magic," she mused. "Or maybe you have some very limited metamorph abilities?"
"Tonks is my cousin, you know."
"Yeah, but so is Draco and nearly everyone else in the magical world," Hermione snarked. After a moment's pause, she asked, "Wonder if Malfoy thins his thicket?"
"Blech!" Harry protested. "If you're too tired for another shag, you could have just said so, rather than stick that off-putting thought into my head."
"Sorry."
"No worries…and I'll answer your question with a question…do you think the Victorians shaved their pubes?"
"Of course not."
"Did they even have to worry about stray hairs during oral sex?"
"Well, if some of those randy Victorian-era novels are at least partially-based on reality…"
"'Which randy Victorian novels?"
"Never mind."
"Do you think that Malfoy would care if a girl's nose tickled his thicket?"
"What makes you think that it'd be a girl?"
"Double-blech!" Harry whined. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course, other than the fact that it's Malfoy we're talking about."
"It'd be one way to end the Malfoy Line."
Harry snorted air out of his nose with contempt.
"He'd just chug a lust potion, close his eyes, and think of England."
Harry shook his head in disbelief as Hermione laughed at his joke. Pulling Hermione's hand clear of his crotch, he stated that his little head was requesting to be obliviated. She scooted up the bed, snuggled against his side, and lifted the covers over them.
"So...back to solving the problem," Hermione declared.
"Would it really be a problem if my pubes didn't grow back?"
"No, but it would be really useful to know whether you had some metamorph abilities."
"Is there something you'd like me to resize?"
"Your dick is perfectly sized, Sweetheart," Hermione said with a giggle. "I was thinking about disguises that couldn't be finite'ed."
"Ah, so…how do you want to start your course of research?"
"Well…maybe you could start by trying to regrow your pubes overnight, just like you did with your botched haircut?"
"Might work…except that there's no incentive."
"It wouldn't be enough just to know more about your magic?"
"Nope," said Harry. "That haircut was savage, and I wanted my hair to grow back with every fiber of my being. Hard to recreate that feeling when I know that you'd rather I be bare down there."
"Huh, then maybe we'd need to set up the proper incentives," Hermione reasoned. "Tell you what…if you can grow back your pubes overnight without cheating…"
"Cheating?"
"Hair growing charms? House elves?"
"Right, so if I can do that without cheating, then…what?"
Hermione smiled as she lifted herself up onto an elbow and put her lips against his ear.
"I'll put on my Slave Leia outfit," she whispered, "and let you watch while I rub one off against the collar's chain."
Harry's eyes widened as he choked on a bit of spittle.
"That'll do," he decided.
And it did.